


if pain must come

by like_theletter



Series: MCYT [7]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity Needs a Hug, Crying, Delirium, Fever, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Insecurity, Platonic Relationships, Sickfic, Strained Friendships, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Victim Blaming, Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), by the victim, prompt: fever, quangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter
Summary: He’s so close to just begging to be dismissed, though the idea of begging makes him nauseous, because he feels like actualshit. His entire body aches. He’s shivering. He’s holding back coughs so intense they bring tears to his eyes.This is not peak working condition, he thinks mockingly.“Pay attention,” Schlatt slurs, eyes narrow, but he puts his stupid polished shoes back up on his stupid polished desk and leans back in his insultingly cushy chair anyway. Quackity thinks about the chair in his own office. It’s uncomfortable as hell. He probably did that on purpose.(Quackity's sick. Tubbo helps. It's not an ideal situation for either of them.)[Prompt: Fever]
Relationships: ALL PLATONIC, Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis| Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Series: MCYT [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077845
Comments: 16
Kudos: 285





	if pain must come

**Author's Note:**

> Title from By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept by Paulo Coelho.
> 
> hello friends! update: i've switched comfort characters since we last spoke SKDJFHSKD
> 
> listen i know i said my next content would be rl au but then i got angst prompts and... 😬
> 
> to that point, so far i've finished three, so expect a purpled-centric one in a few days, and then FINALLY ranboo-centric rl au prompt after that
> 
> that's all so enjoy and tell me about your day in the comments!

Quackity thinks this has to violate some kind of labor laws. 

God, his brain’s boiling out of his fucking skull, he feels like he has a fever of about 150 degrees, but here he is, still standing like an idiot trying not to pass out as Schlatt muses drunkenly about the  _ direction of Manberg’s future—  _ or something. Maybe. He really has no idea. 

And he’s always fucking standing, right? Why is he always standing? Can’t they have this discussion sitting down? Schlatt is sitting. Quackity knows if he tried to plop down next to him, Schlatt’d level him a glare with the furious intensity and unearned self-righteousness of a million wronged soccer moms. The idea makes him shiver. 

Well— he was already shivering. Not the point.

Quackity swallows back a miserable  _ fuuuck _ for about the tenth time in two minutes. Is the AC blowing  _ directly _ on him? It’s fucking freezing in here. He suppresses another shudder, feeling it rattle through his chest, and surreptitiously wipes the sheen of sweat off the back of his neck.

All he can hope for at this point is that he doesn’t collapse. That would be embarrassing. 

Schlatt is looking at him expectantly, probably having asked a question. Good lord. Quackity gauges his expression for a minute before realizing he is very much not at 100% processing capacity, so he just swallows and says, “Yes.” 

Schlatt raises an eyebrow. Quackity tacks a “Sir,” on the end, and something in his heart screams bloody murder. He ignores it. Now is not the time to argue.

There’s a pause. Schlatt’s eyes rove over him in that way he hates, and Quackity feels a cough worming its way up his throat— speaking of  _ not the fucking time.  _ He swallows, then swallows again just for good measure. 

He’s so close to just begging to be dismissed, though the idea of begging makes him nauseous, because he feels like actual  _ shit _ . His entire body aches. He’s shivering. He’s holding back coughs so intense they bring tears to his eyes.  _ This is not peak working condition,  _ he thinks mockingly.

“Pay attention,” Schlatt slurs, eyes narrow, but he puts his stupid polished shoes back up on his stupid polished desk and leans back in his insultingly cushy chair anyway. Quackity thinks about the chair in his own office. It’s uncomfortable as hell. He probably did that on purpose. 

Schlatt launches back into his monologue, slurring just the tiniest bit. He’s always been one for theatrics, Quackity thinks, as he makes a sweeping gesture with his bottle of whiskey and some sloshes out the side. It splatters at Quackity’s feet and his nausea increases tenfold. 

Quackity opens his mouth to say something— maybe  _ fuck you  _ or  _ I’m sick  _ or  _ please for the love of god let me be dismissed—  _ but before he can, Tubbo all but slams the door open. 

Schlatt turns his head sharply towards the door and Quackity flinches— force of habit— before watching Schlatt sneer at their new company. 

“Sorry,” Tubbo starts, and if Quackity had a nickel for every sentence of Tubbo’s that started with  _ sorry  _ he’d probably be able to buy some fucking medicine, “But Fundy and I kind of need Big Q, if you don’t mind, sir. I know you’re meeting with him and it must be important, but we really can’t get this done without him. Sorry, sir,” he finishes, then tilts his head in a silent question. God, he’s laying it on thick. Quackity feels a pang in his chest, knowing Tubbo will absolutely pay for this later, but he can’t help but be grateful because his vision has started to swim and his legs feel suspiciously jelly-like. 

Schlatt’s sneer deepens and he mutters something about  _ disrespect  _ that makes Quackity’s blood run cold— Tubbo’s, too, if the way he hides his flinch is anything to go by— but ultimately he waves a hand and goes, “Take him.” 

Quackity would usually be at least a little stung by the disdain in his voice, but right now all he feels is relief. He takes a couple steps on stiff, shaky legs.  _ Woah _ . Lightheaded. Shit, he really  _ is  _ going to collapse if he keeps this up.

He sends a pleading glance to Tubbo, whose eyes widen with concern. Tubbo strides across the room and loops his arm around Quackity’s. Quackity can feel the tension in his shoulders, and how it relaxes slightly when the door to Schlatt’s office shuts behind them.

“Thank you,” Quackity croaks, all too aware of how raspy his voice is. 

Tubbo grimaces. “You sound awful, Big Q. I’m glad I got there when I did.”

“Me too,” Quackity sighs, adjusting his grip on Tubbo’s arm and leaning against the wall. “Thought I was going to pass out.”

“That’s not good.” Tubbo frowns and shifts so he’s facing Quackity fully. He pushes back Quackity’s hair and beanie and touches the back of his hand gently to his forehead, which makes Quackity flush beyond his fever. This literal child is mother-henning him right now. This is what his life has come to. 

Tubbo hisses through his teeth. “You’re burning up. Let’s get you to bed.”

Quackity takes another step and stumbles, feeling distinctly woozy. Tubbo wraps an arm around his waist. 

“Mmm— you don’t have t’ take care of me, y’know,” Quackity forces out past the thickness in his throat. Tubbo’s shaking his head before he even finishes.

“You need to be taken care of,” Tubbo says quietly, voice laced with something soft and very very sad.

_ That’s ridiculous,  _ Quackity thinks, near-hazy.  _ You’re just a kid. _

“Ouch.”

Oh, shit.

Quackity shakes his head slowly, though it makes his stomach lurch. “S’rry. Did not mean to say that out loud.”

Tubbo laughs quietly. It sounds very distinctly unhappy. 

They walk the rest of the way in relative silence, save for when Quackity stumbles and Tubbo murmurs reassurances. He’s good at that shit. Quackity is aware enough to realize he’s getting delirious, but not much more than that; he’s mostly focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and not vomiting all over Tubbo’s shoes. 

After what seems like hours, Tubbo’s finally shifting his weight to support Quackity and opening the door to his room. Quackity weakly bats away his hand, insisting he can walk to the bed on his own. He doesn’t know why it’s so important to him— probably something to do with the embarrassment of a literal child tucking him into bed— but he’s willing to risk eating shit if it means he can walk to the bed on his own two feet.

He does, indeed, eat shit. 

Quackity’s knees buckle a mere few feet from the bed. Tubbo cries out and manages to grasp the back of his suit as he goes down, knees knocking on the waxed hardwood, but it does little more than pull at his arms uncomfortably. “Totally good to walk, huh?” Tubbo mutters, doing his best to haul Quackity back up, but he’s short and skinny and Quackity isn’t really in a position to be very helpful. It’s quite the ordeal. 

Eventually, though, Tubbo gets him semi-comfortable. He removes Quackity’s shoes and puts them by the door, helps him out of his blazer, tugs the plush comforter up to his waist. It’s after that that Tubbo seems to falter. Even in his delirious state, Quackity recognizes the anxious furrow of his brow and the way his hands jitter nervously at his sides, and wonders why he’s so worried.

Tubbo leaves and returns with a damp, cool cloth. He grips it anxiously, sits on the side of the bed, and places it on Quackity’s forehead, hands hovering over afterwards as if seeing if he should take it off. 

Oh. Fucking duh. He has no idea what he’s doing. 

“‘S good,” Quackity slurs. “Cloth is good. And a bowl of water, to dip it in?”

Tubbo blinks. “Are you… suggesting things?”

“That’s how you treat a fever.”

“I’m supposed to be taking care of  _ you. _ ”

“Yeah but you’re—”  _ bad at it,  _ he almost says, but backtracks because it’s not really true, “—inexperienced. ‘M helping.” 

Something distressed crosses Tubbo’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. He says, “I’ll get a bowl of water.”

Quackity watches him glance furtively down the hallway before walking out, leaving the door cracked. He feels bad for him. Tubbo’s just a kid in a too-big suit clearly out of his depth here, and Quackity’s an idiot who got sick and now apparently needs to be fussed over like a toddler. 

He’s still freezing, so he grasps blindly at the comforter and pulls it up over his chest. No matter how many times he sleeps in this bed, it never stops smelling like dust and furniture polish, like a hotel room on the first night. Like he doesn’t live there at all. It’s such a tiny thing, by far not the worst thing about being there, but it burrows into the back of his head—  _ you don’t live here. You don’t own anything.  _

Quackity blinks and Tubbo’s back, shutting the door, lighting the lamp, setting the bowl on the bedside table. He hands Quackity a glass of water. “Drink.”

“Take this.” Quackity tugs the cloth off his head and slings it weakly at Tubbo, who squawks. “It’s warm.”

Tubbo scowls. “You didn’t have to throw it at me,” he grumbles, setting the cloth in the bowl of water and taking off his blazer. “My sleeve is all wet now.” 

“I’m dying here and you’re complaining about your wet sleeve.” Quackity sips at the water, which feels like heaven on his burning throat.

With an eyeroll, Tubbo sits delicately on the bed and picks up the cloth, wringing it out. Nervousness flits across his features. He reaches out and pats Quackity awkwardly on the forehead with it. 

Quackity laughs, though it makes him lightheaded. “You’re doing great.”

He hadn’t meant it sarcastically, but apparently Tubbo takes it that way, because his face falls a little bit before smoothing over into indifference. Quackity feels his chest twist with guilt. 

Avoiding eye contact, he stares at Tubbo’s hand, which grips the comforter too tightly to be casual: pale and small, nails bitten to the quick. There are fingerprint-shaped bruises peeking out of the end of his sleeve. Quackity’s heart sinks. 

“‘M sorry,” he says, without thinking. His words are really starting to slur together now. It makes him sound like Schlatt, a thought that has bile rising in his throat. 

“Sorry for what?” Tubbo asks, turning away to dip the cloth again.

“This. All of this.” 

Tubbo stills. His head snaps back to look at Quackity, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“I—” Quackity brings a shaking hand up to swipe some of the sweat off his face. “I got Schlatt elected, ’s my fault he’s— you’re—” 

“Don’t say that.” The cloth drips water all over Tubbo’s lap. He doesn’t notice, staring at Quackity with wide, horrified eyes. “Don’t say that, you— there’s no way you could’ve known.”

“But I helped him,” Quackity says, “and now you’re getting hurt.”

Tubbo’s face twists. “I’m not— I can—” He closes his eyes, and settles on, “You’re getting hurt too.”

Quackity’s overcome with a swell of grief and shifts up on his elbows, trembling, his head pounding. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he knows he  _ needs _ Tubbo to hear this, to understand, because he’s seen the way Tubbo talks about Schlatt’s mistreatment of them. He knows Tubbo thinks of his own as more forgivable than Quackity’s. 

And he can’t  _ take _ it anymore. It’s a silent, uncomfortable, tragic truth in Quackity’s lucid hours, but now, with fever loosening his tongue, he feels an overwhelming need to  _ say something.  _ “But you’re a  _ kid,  _ God—” Against Quackity’s will, tears slide down his cheeks. “You’re just a kid and I— and I dragged you into this and, and you don’t deserve it.”

Tubbo stares at him, eyes wide and wet. A complicated menagerie of emotions passes over his face, as his hand tightens on the comforter, as he looks down and away. His mouth sets into a firm line. He blinks the tears out of his eyes. 

Quackity thinks briefly, in his fever-hazed brain, that he wants to reach out, to hug the kid. He wants to get out of the fucking White House, out of Manberg, to take Tubbo with him. He wants a peaceful fucking life. He wants no more nightmares. 

Tubbo takes the glass of water from him and sets it on the bedside table. “Go to sleep,” he says softly, voice void of emotion, standing to leave.

A few more tears slip down Quackity’s cheeks, and without thought, his hand shoots out and grasps at the end of Tubbo’s sleeve, above the bruises. “Stay?” He asks. He sounds weak and pathetic even to his own ears. 

Tubbo’s expression cracks down the middle, but he nods, turning off the lamp and lying on top of the comforter. Quackity turns away and tries to muffle his cries in the pillow. His head hurts. 

He hears shifting from behind him, a sigh, and then feels a gentle hand in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. The silence envelops them like a blanket, and Quackity feels like he’s sinking into the bed, like he’s going to fall through the floor and straight to the center of the world. 

Quackity hears a whisper from behind him, almost too quiet to make out. “I’m sorry.” Tubbo’s voice is soft and overwhelmingly sad. “You don’t deserve it either.”

Tears drip onto the cold silk pillowcase. Quackity opens his mouth to respond and finds he can come up with nothing to say. He shivers. 

There’s a pause. A hand reaches over and tugs the comforter further up on his shoulders. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Tubbo says. 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment of what you liked (or what you didn't) and thanks so much for reading!
> 
> fun news: I AM TWITCH STREAMING!!! check me out [here](https://www.twitch.tv/like_theletter), i stream minecraft (and other things)!!! current schedule is wednesday nights at 8pm EST so if that's something you're interested in check it out :D
> 
> i also quickly wanted to thank you all for the support on to keep from sinking; it was an INCREDIBLY personal fic for me and to see all of the positive earnest feedback was really really amazing. i have in fact cried over it. thanks so much <3
> 
> have a great week and be kind to yourself :]


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